


High-Level Negotiations

by dagonst



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 04:38:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dagonst/pseuds/dagonst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Stark, Bruce Wayne, business, and champagne.  Cheers!</p>
            </blockquote>





	High-Level Negotiations

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kinkmeme last year; tweaked a little, but still not compliant with Dark Knight Rises. The prompt was Tony's champagne line.

Gotham City is used to Bruce Wayne’s parties, which one way or another shut themselves down around midnight. But tonight Tony Stark is in town; Stark’s events stagger to a halt between three and sunrise, unless building management or the police intervene. Tony owns the building.

This Stark-brand party is nearing the end of the civilized stage. A waiter offers to take Bruce’s glass, and Bruce drunkenly exchanges it for the entire bottle of champagne, and begins alternately raising it to his lips, and - when he can - offering it to other tipsy guests. He interrupts Tony Stark in the middle of an Iron Man story, tops off everyone’s glasses. “Bruce! Haven’t seen you in ages, hey, we should talk,” Tony said. He’d said the same thing when Bruce got to the party. 

So Stark’s drunk, then. Which is fine, but also isn’t. Bruce doesn’t want Iron Man in Gotham. Iron Man’s too close with the government that’s hunting the Batman, too flashy, too unserious. He finds it irritating that Tony Stark blew his own cover, off the cuff at a press conference, no consequences at all. But Iron Man is a hero, and so Stark ought to be acting like one, not throwing parties and drinking himself sick.

Stark vanishes just before the strippers show up. Unusual. Bruce makes a sweep, finds him in the men’s room one (unlocked) floor down, leaning over a sink, empty glass of champagne on the counter. He startles, laughs, looks guilty as hell when he sees Bruce in the mirror. 

“Fuck, you’re too quiet. Still playing waiter?” Stark asks him. Stark’s holding his left hand oddly, fingers curled; he runs it under the water then shoves it in his pocket. “Think I lost my chance with that blonde.” 

“You mean my date? Too bad.” It’s not the first time - or the fifth - Tony has poached girls off Bruce.

“I mean that reporter you brought. You know, Bruce, it’s not that I mind you putting it in my glass. But if you don’t like champagne, there’s easier ways not to drink it.”

For a second it doesn’t make sense, and Bruce thinks drugs, which explains the handwashing, guilt, and nonsense. Then it does make sense; Bruce thinks surveillance cameras, and says, “I dunno, Tony, you’re pretty easy.”

Stark grins. “For you, sure. If you’re ready to ditch the party, I can show you.” 

That invitation is bound to include company, and he’s not in the mood to fend off whatever Stark has lined up. “Thanks, but I’m not into sharing.”

“Private invitation. Ask the elevator nicely, it’ll let you up to the penthouse. Demonstration in twenty.” Stark tilts his head. “Of champagne, I mean.” But Bruce Wayne is scrupulously heterosexual, and too many people make exceptions for Tony Stark already. 

Bruce gets halfway home before a Batsignal flares in his rearview mirror. 

* * *

The Batman glares at Stark’s Bat-watching group. He can see them milling around in the penthouse apartment, behind Stark’s jury-rigged Batsignal. Like they actually expect the Batman to land on the balcony and join the party. His vantage point is good, low enough to see faces through his binoculars. And then there’s a sound he can’t quite place, and Iron Man touches down, ten feet away from his current position. The Batman has at least five pieces of equipment that should be able to scratch that paint job.

“Batman, I presume. Nice suit. You’ve still got a little heat signal.” Iron Man’s voice comes through a modulator, impossible to tell if it’s actually Tony Stark. Interesting.

“Stop playing games, Stark. What do you want?”

“So many things. I need to get a message to the people behind your equipment.” It sounds calm and reasonable, which is a compelling argument for someone else flying the suit. Or else the impression comes from the electronic voice, the suit’s limited range of expression.

“Try holding a press conference.”

“Yeah, stick with scary, humor is not your thing. The message is, we should talk. Those words exactly. Oh, and - standing job offer for the designer, I really am impressed.”

‘We should talk.’ Stark thinks there’s a connection to Wayne, then. “Get back to your party, and then get out of my city.”

“Trust me, I’m leaving before any of the crazy rubs off. Night, Bats.”

And Stark lifts off; Batman shrinks further into the shadows, watches Iron Man do stunt loops around the building before landing. Stark pops his helmet open, grins, and takes yet another glass of champagne. He turns and raises it towards Batman’s building, and drinks it down.

* * *

“Morning, Bruce!”

Bruce Wayne always sleeps in, and Batman does when he can. Alfred guards his rest faithfully, but apparently has been defeated by... oh. Tony Stark, maniac.

“Stark. Get the hell out of my bedroom.” He tacks a yawn on, because Bruce Wayne doesn’t go from sleep to full alert in under a second.

“It’s a beautiful morning. Minimal smog, didn’t get carjacked on the way. My plane leaves in two hours.”

“Good.” Bruce pulls on a shirt. “Alfred can drive you.”

“Bruce, I’m starting to think we’re not friends.” He sits on the bed anyway, punches codes into his phone, which coughs up a hologram, three times life-size, hanging between the two of them. “Alfred’s making coffee, you might want it for this.”

It’s an SI invoice, the customer is a Wayne subsidiary. “You broke in and woke me up to complain about unpaid bills?”

“Way more fun. Are you ready for this, or do you want coffee first? Okay, the descriptions and inventory codes are bogus; there’s a second set of codes in the Extra3 column, which does not go on the bill. Here’s Extra3, new codes. That one’s kevlar, that’s - plate armor, I think, they use it on humvees. Your billing number, I am reliably informed, translates to “housekeeping”. I thought there might be a reasonable explanation that you - or someone in your organization - might want the opportunity to share.” 

Bruce blinks at the invoice for a minute, looking for the angle. Has Stark joined the hunt for the Batman, or is this yet another shakeup at Stark Industries? “Housekeeping’s a tough job in Gotham. I signed off on the purchases, Tony. I’m sorry the paperwork is irregular on your end.”

They exchange looks. Stark looks away first, waves it off, and the projection dissolves. “Okay. Good. In confidence, we got hacked last week. I’m not sure what all they got, but I figure it’ll turn up on Wikileaks or something. So I’m - damage control. Getting the house in order.”

Internal, then. “Hell on your stock prices. Anything need to change on our end?” Stark will already know these purchases had been going through Obadiah Stane, whose position is still empty three months after his plane crash. 

Stark’s fingers drum on the tablet. “Send the purchase orders to me, direct. If we’ve got the inventory, it won’t be a problem. Speaking of stocks, any chance your PR problem is going to fix itself?”

Bruce Wayne has no PR problems, and also no need for Stark-grade armor or sensors. “Not likely.”

“Well. Nice job on the mansion rebuild, anyway.”

* * *

The next time Stark disappears from his own party - Gotham again, promoting his upcoming expo - Bruce tries the elevator. The first thing Stark - alone, tie askew but otherwise dressed, tablet in hand - says when the elevator doors open is, “Bruce, hey. Couple things about that last order. I can get you the fifty-threes, but we’ve stopped production, turns out they’re too easy to turn into bombs even if you're not me. And the repulsors, no.”

“Why not?” 

“They’re proprietary, trademark Iron Man and I’m not ready to dilute the brand. I’ll leave you some in my will, or something. Also - you want to think real long and hard about a flying Batman, Bruce. I did, it was hilarious. The gliding, that’s not bad, consider sticking with that.”

“Tony, you’re getting a little ahead of - what is that? You’re glowing.”

“Oh - yeah, I am a little, thanks.” Stark makes to adjust the tie, and Bruce grips his hand, forces it away. “Oh, no. Bruce, you do not seriously think I’m wired.”

“What is it?” And he’s slipped into Batman’s voice without thinking about it. Stark glares back, wrenches his hand away. 

“It’s an arc reactor. And if I were going to record this conversation, I would do it with Stark equipment, which - I’m just saying - does not glow, beep, or show up on standard scans. Also, point of interest, I own this building. If I want a tape, Jarvis will handle it. Say hi, Jarvis.” Stark strips while he talks, turns his button-down inside out to show the lack of wires, same with the undershirt, turns around once, then crosses his arms and glares.

Bruce ignores the synthesized voice; it isn’t half as startling as the glowing disk embedded in Tony Stark’s chest. “What the hell is that?” he has to say, because no-one does that to themselves.

“Arc reactor. Problem?”

“No,” he says, because he doesn’t want to escalate the situation, but he studies it, for a minute. Arc reactors are power supply. For Iron Man? Or something more like - more than - a pacemaker. Apart from the arc reactor, Stark has a series of smaller scars on his chest. And irrelevant older burns and cuts, from workshop accidents and a single-car crash in his early twenties. 

“These aren’t bruises,” Bruce concludes. “Around the implant. More like -”

“Yeah, yeah. On top of it already.” Stark waves off the concern, and Bruce’s hand, but he doesn’t back away.

“How long?”

Stark did a magazine spread not all that long ago, posed shirtless, but it could date from Afghanistan, or the California incident... Stark says, “if you sell off my stock in six months, I won’t be offended. Wait a year, I might not notice.” His mouth twitches. “That information leaves this room while I’m breathing, I turn over everything I know and everything I can invent about you and your associate.”

Oh. That explains the expo Stark’s planning, why he hasn’t bothered to establish a routine for using the Iron Man. He’s planning a legacy, not a career. “The stock’s a recent acquisition, I was planning to hang onto it. Are you okay?” It’s a stupid thing to say, Bruce realizes. Bruce Wayne and Tony Stark’s friendship was always mostly false, and the tentative alliance between the Batman and the Iron Man does not include personal concern.

Stark only shrugs, takes a couple steps back. “So. That’s all. There’s the balcony; the second elevator over there is private.” 

“I wasn’t looking for a quick escape, Tony. Better uses for a bottle of champagne, you said,” he prompts, before Stark can muster an even more obvious brush-off. Because Tony Stark may have his death timed to the minute, but Bruce still knows from bitter experience that dying is as good as dead. Once he leaves, that’s it.

Stark - Tony - smiles, smooth and meaningless. “Trade secret, sorry to tease.”

“You were pouring it straight down the drain, Stark. Just admit you’ve got nothing.”

“Plenty, but it’s really not your kind of sce -” Bruce kisses him which, turns out, actually shuts Tony Stark up. “My mistake,” he says, several minutes later. “Huh. Now I wish I’d been recording this.”

“Don’t push it.”

Tony laughs. “You know me, right? Spare room, I’m not having a sticky mess in my bed.” By Bruce’s count, Stark has slept in ‘his bed’ twice, when he flew in to dedicate the building, and his last trip over the invoices. One of his executives - Stane, actually - had stayed several weeks, opening the office.

“Strip,” Tony orders. 

“How far?”

“ _Down_ , I should not have to explain these things to a gentleman with your reputation.” Tony says, fiddling with his cufflinks, and then the lights, and Bruce’s position, and then he says, “oh, the champagne!” and disappears, and gets back right around the time Bruce decides he must have gotten distracted by e-mail.

And it’s - interesting, in a way. Tony pours chilled champagne down his back , drags his fingers through it, and across Bruce’s spine. Cold, and tingling, and Stark seems to want to trace every scar he’s got with it, with fingers or tongue, and guess how he got them. He gets maybe half-way down, then leans down, holding himself off Bruce’s back with one hand. “Are you bored? Because I think this is way more fun when everyone’s drunk. Fuck the champagne.” Bruce gives him a wry look and helps strip the bed. 

“You aren’t that sober. I was watching you, you drank at least two glasses.”

“More like four, and I am that sober. I planned to catch up after you did your Cinderella thing.” Stark tosses the balled-up sheets towards the door. 

“You don’t ever shut up,” Bruce observes.

“Never. Problem?”

“I’ll survive.”

* * *

Tony walks out onto the balcony too, shrugging a shirt back on. 

“You’re not going out as Iron Man.” He’d assumed that much, but he’s been wrong about Tony Stark more than once.

“Gotham City, right?” Tony waves a hand at the skyline. “Pretty sure I’d get mugged. Go, out, goodnight.”

“Iron Man. Good luck.”

“You too, Bruce,” he hears, dropping over the balcony.

* * *

Bruce watches Tony self-destruct on the news, until he disappears again and stops answering email. But he keeps the stock, buys more when Stark tanks it again, handing the company over to his personal assistant. Bruce Wayne believes in plenty of lost causes, one more won’t break him. And then the man cures himself by - if he’s not lying - fabricating a new element, then talks his way into a government-sponsored team with an alleged Norse god and Captain America. Because the universe itself makes exceptions for Tony Stark.


End file.
